'He who has laughter on his side has no need of proof.' - Theodor Adorno.

Ye Olde Linoleum Shoppe

Wednesday, 22 August 2012

SHAVE A GOOSEBERRY

Hello Guinea pigs, I recently had the pleasure of meeting my chum of yesteryore Fintan Cash - you'll no doubt be delighted to hear that the Finster is very much his old self - not much changed from the days of when we studied archaeology together (in the Terenure Institute of Lower Indoctrination.) As I remember Fintini was never much of a man for studying, his college days were spent spreading non-specific urethritis around campus - and damn good he was at it too. Anyway Mr. Fintanaphone was giddy as a schoolgirl, dying to tell me all about the new archaeological company he has just set up.'I will be rich!' he cried. 'I will make my stake in in the hurly burly world of capitalist archaeology and walk away tattooed in lucre!'When I asked him about the delicate art of the tendering for excavations, and how he intended to approach it ,his eyes became misty as he stared into a beckoning middle ground and enunciated: 'Picture an arse - a huge arse behind a finishing line and clenched betwixt it's cheeks a glistering medallion . . .''Whatever do you mean?' I enquired.'These days,' he replied scratching a dead rat out of his ear,'Tendering for jobs in archaeology is a race to the bottom and I intend to take gold!!'

I further asked about pay rates and how he would remunerate bushy tailed toothsome archaeologists who humbled themselves to work for him. This question caused El Fint to micturate his tweed knee breeches with mirth, and he continued to do so until we were both standing in a steaming puddle. Then his face grew dark and he caught me with an eye hard as marble. 'I have taken into partnership with Signor Antonio Grabbdi the infamous bouncer of Rome's Bunga Bunga nights. He's not to be trifled with - and he assures me he can strong-arm archaeologists in accepting two bob shitpence a week - with a kick in the hole for expenses.'Sounds about the going rate . . .' I sadly chimed in.

'Of course pay rates are not the only way I will be cutting corners . . .' he continued. 'To aid in my journey to the financial antipodes I have also taken onto my board of directors no less an accountant than Frau Klara Fuchder - the celebrated Gooseberry Shaver of Dortmund. As he mentioned this name the sky grew dark and lightning rent the heavens.

'Yes,' he cackled, 'Frau Fuchder will see that our budgets have no room for excavation frivolities such as specialists, tea breaks, shovels, buckets, breathing, publications, smiling, innocence - we will run a tight ship where the crew will row hard and be fed to the rats for their troubles.' A smile hung like a filthy hammock across his cheeks as he said this. I must have appeared visibly shocked since he gave me a disappointed withering look, spun on his heels and departed leaving only the smell of rotten meat and a flyer for his new company fluttering in the air. . .

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I am a descended from a long line of conga dancers. I occasionally wear shoes. I gave up going to the toilet twenty years ago - it's a filthy habit. I have a pet bunny called Mucky - he's a filthy rabbit.